Hide & Seek
by S. Faith
Summary: While attending the Turkey Curry Buffet right after they finally get together, Mark can think of nothing but Bridget. Rated M for adult situations. No, really.


Hide & Seek

© 2006 S. Faith

Approximately three days. Thirty six hours. And an outrageous number of shags. Still, Mark Darcy could not stop looking at Bridget Jones, seated on a chair to his right and dressed in a ridiculous powder blue snowman jumper nearly a twin of his own. He was almost ashamed to admit how like a schoolboy he felt, wanting nothing more to hold her again, to touch her, to kiss her. She directed her attention from her plate of turkey curry up to him, seemed surprised to find his intense gaze was already upon her. Demurely, she smiled and lowered her eyes again, her face turning pink; his thoughts must have been plain as day.

Mark then wondered if everyone in the room could feel the electricity, the heart-pounding desire coursing between them. He glanced to Bridget's mother – still gabbing away. He looked to Uncle Geoffrey – drunkenly embracing Una with a whiskey sour sloshing in his hand. And his parents – talking to Penny. It was like they didn't even notice. Completely oblivious.

He had long since finished his dinner but she continued to eat, and after the last forkful of rice, potato and turkey, Mark watched as she ran a finger through the delicious curry sauce and subsequently popped it into her mouth. He was sure it was done in all innocence; his reaction was anything but.

She raised her eyes to him again and found what must have been a stupid male expression of wide-eyed lust on his own face. She pulled her finger out of her mouth, blushing yet smiling once more, obviously pleased to garner such a reaction. She stood, sidled up to him, held her hand out as an offer to collect his plate (which he gave to her with nary a word) and went into the kitchen. After a moment during which rational thought returned to his head (along with the flow of blood), he decided to follow her.

In silence he observed her rinsing off the plates and stacked them neatly on top of the others. Mark could stand it no more and soundlessly swept up to her, brushing his hands against her hips then forward across her abdomen, placing his lips upon her neck. She turned around with a gasp.

"Mark," she whispered in warning, her eyes flashing to the kitchen door, which he had (to his sincere regret) left slightly ajar. "Not in here."

He remembered an earlier protestation of hers. "Yes, yes. It's your _parents'_ house," he said, kissing her cheek lightly, then continued quietly into her ear, "So surely you know where the hidey holes are."

Now he moved his hands to her backside, pressing her to him, and his lips took hers again. For a few seconds her reaction told him that she forgot where she was and she allowed him free reign, until she came to her senses and reluctantly pushed him away. "Mark," she whispered again, a little more strongly.

He was not at all chastened; in fact, he was more determined than ever. "Can we sneak up to—?"

"Gah, _no_," she said unconvincingly as he moved towards her once more, grasping her hands, breathing warm air into her temple then placing kisses along her hairline. Her eyes fluttered closed.

"Oh!"

Bridget launched herself away from him. Mark, for his part, stepped back calmly with as much dignity as he could muster. It was Una Alconbury carrying an empty tureen, with the bloody worst timing ever. His good manners kicked in and Mark stepped forward with his hands outstretched to relieve Una of the tureen, but it didn't stop her from looking like the cat that ate the canary.

"Thank you, Mark," Una said, an amused twist to her lips as he refilled the tureen with curried turkey for her.

"Let me bring that out there for you."

"Oh, dear no. I've got it." Una raised an eyebrow, hoisting the tureen into her hands and heading for the kitchen door. "I don't want to keep you any longer than I need to." He saw Bridget blush furiously. As Una walked away, he heard her murmuring a smug, "So _adorable_ together…!", closing the door behind herself.

Bridget put her hands to her face, mortified.

"I hope you're happy," said Mark coolly.

She looked to him, all astonishment. "You hope _I'm_ happy?"

"Yes," he continued in that same tone. "If we'd stolen away five minutes ago Una wouldn't have had the chance to walk in on us."

She gave him a steady look and her expression became more thoughtful. "All right, Darcy," she said at last in a very quiet voice. "You find me, you can have me. Count to twenty. Give me a head start." Bridget then stalked out of the kitchen, flashing an evil grin back over her shoulder at him.

Mark felt slightly stunned. It was not at all what he was expecting, but he found that he was willing to rise to the challenge.

She was a terrible influence on him. Terrible.

…

"Mrs Jones. I appear to have lost track of your daughter. Have you by chance seen her?"

Pamela Jones tilted her head and stared at Mark like he had lost his marbles. "What do you mean, 'lost track of' her?"

He smiled, trying to be nonchalant. "I, um, stopped to talk to my father and now—" He exhaled impatiently. "Can you just tell me if you've seen her?"

"Last I saw of her, she was heading for the kitchen, and I seem to recall you followed her in there straightaway." Pamela looked as pleased as Una had sounded; clearly Una had shared her discovery. Mark cleared his throat, embarrassed.

"Well. Thanks anyway."

He sauntered towards what Pamela loftily referred to as the conservatory, octagonal in shape and a peaked glass ceiling. He was perplexed. He reasoned that she was not going to be waiting for him in one of these very public rooms, and so far as he could tell, she was not in the loo, not in the sitting room, not in her parents' room, and most unfortunately, not in her own bedroom. Surely she would not have dashed outside to her father's work shed, though she'd certainly had plenty of experience dashing through winter weather with too little appropriate clothing on.

He would have been able to think more clearly if he wasn't so distracted by thoughts of her. He couldn't catch a stray whiff of vanilla without being suffused in memories of her soft blonde hair. The silkiness of her mouth against his own tortured him to think of. The blue of her sparkling eyes filled nearly every waking thought. The way she raked her nails through his hair caused him to shudder with delight.

As a result he found himself frequently redirecting his thoughts towards cricket or football, just as he was at this present moment. He had been convinced that once he'd kissed her, made love to her, the effect she had on him would diminish. In actual fact, quite the opposite had occurred.

Brian Enderby passed by him, smiled and asked him where that lovely Bridget had run off to, bringing Mark out of his thoughts. Mark had to stop himself from admitting that because she delighted in tormenting him, he didn't know. He simply smiled.

He realised in a disconnected fashion that his mobile phone was ringing. Pulsing was more accurate, as the ringer was off. The phone display announced it was Bridget. He opened his phone and said a neutral, "Yes."

"Mark." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Don't tell me you've given up so soon."

He smirked, turning away to avoid observation by the partygoers. "Clearly you don't wish me to find you."

"Nothing could be further from the truth. If I told you what was going through my head, it would make you combust with shame."

Mark was convinced she was trying to do exactly that by saying such things to him over the phone in the middle of the Turkey Curry Buffet. He took a centering breath. "I'm in the conservatory. Give me a hint."

She was silent a moment. "All right. You're on the right floor. And you haven't opened every closed door."

"Can you at least tell me if I'm warm?"

"Darling," she whispered naughtily, "you're _hot_."

She disconnected.

He emerged from the conservatory, scanning the walls of the dining room. No additional doors. And then his eyes fixed upon a door so commonplace as to be invisible.

The cupboard under the stairs.

She couldn't. She _wouldn't_.

He took another circuit of the first floor, verifying that all doors had been thoroughly investigated; they had.

She must have.

He approached it, hovered near it, uncertain what to do next. At that moment, the heavens smiled upon him: Pamela appeared in front of the Christmas tree in the conservatory, calling attention to dessert, Una Alconbury's Raspberry Surprise, causing all present to gasp with amazement and chatter with anticipation.

Mark took the opportunity to crack the cupboard door open and awkwardly slip into the small space, crawling in, pulling the door closed, wishing for a latch on the inside. He tended to be single-minded when he was with Bridget; the world could collapse around him and he wouldn't notice.

In the cupboard it was dark and stuffy. As his eyes adjusted, he had a sinking feeling that he'd been horribly wrong, and he was sitting all alone in a tiny, triangular-shaped cupboard, as ridiculous as can be while Bridget giggled from the front lawn, rejoicing in her little joke.

The lengths men would go to just to satisfy carnal needs.

Luckily he was mistaken. He felt fingernails raking along his knee. He was able to discern the edges of some boxes, a stack of folded blankets, and then her hair haloed by stray light. "Well. You win, Mark."

"I think we both do." He was taken aback by the huskiness of his own voice.

She ran her hand across his chest, pushing him back against the wall and pressing her delicious mouth against his. There were so many reasons this was wrong – with her parents, _his_ parents, no more than a few metres away – but one very pressing reason it was right. In an instance she was upon his lap, having conveniently prepared for his discovering her: her trousers were noticeably absent, and he heard the crinkle of a condom packet as she reached to sheath him. He bit back a groan, remembering where they were, the danger of discovery strangely arousing.

He heard the creak of the stair boards over their heads in concert with her shifting forward. With a sharp intake of breath and a stifled moan they connected, and she moved on his lap in a most stimulating manner. His hands fixed upon her hips and pressed downward, sitting up enough to kiss then graze her neck with his teeth. As eager as he'd been to find her, and the thoughts he'd had in pursuit of her, his release took very little time at all, a blessed relief for his suffering; a long, low sigh issued from his mouth as she broke their kiss. She continued to move atop him, and he kept his firm grasp on her hips. He could hear her breathing become progressively more laboured, then suddenly she pressed her lips to his again, a sure sign she was trying to stifle her own cries before she shuddered then went still. He leaned back to rest across the wall and she fell forward against his chest, regaining her breath. Her arms snaked around his neck, kissing him on his throat.

Managing a smile, he thought that this would do nicely indeed… for the time being, anyhow.

Through the haze of his ebbing desire, he then heard with unsurpassed horror Pamela's voice pass by the cupboard door, querying someone unidentifiable if they had seen 'the lovebirds'.

It was only then that Mark realised that there was a fatal flaw to this little plan: escaping the cupboard undetected then passing inspection by family and friends, because surely they were both now thoroughly mussed. She pushed herself up, likely to look at him as best she could in that small dark place, the alarm on her own face evident even in the dimness.

"Now what, genius?" she whispered.

"It was not _my_ idea to play hide and seek," Mark said archly, "then steal away for a shag in the cupboard under the stairs." Despite the search party just outside the door, he kissed her. Once more, she responded favourably, but only at first.

"Mark, stop," she whispered.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," he quipped.

"Be serious," she said crossly.

He sighed. She was right. It would be shaming to be found in here practically _in flagrante delicto_. He tried to shift; yes, it was every bit as small in that space as he was afraid it might be. "I'm afraid you will have to make the first move, as you have me rather pinned down."

She slipped from him – sending through him a renewed regret that they were not in a more private, comfortable area that would afford him an opportunity to ravish her again – and began panicking about finding her trousers, which he realised he was sitting on. After taking care of the condom (thank goodness for the empty plastic Tesco carrier bag within the reach of his left hand) and fastening his slacks, he rolled a little to one side to pull her trousers out from under himself, inadvertently pushing his mobile phone into his hip.

Mark became suddenly inspired and dug the mobile from his pocket.

"What are you doing?"

"Trust me."

He punched in a number, distinctly heard the Jones's phone ringing from the kitchen, and footsteps racing to answer.

"Hello, Jones residence," trilled Pamela.

"Mrs. Jones. It's Mark."

"Mark, where are you? Where's Bridget?"

"We decided to… get away from the crowd for a bit, take a stroll outside. Are my parents still there?"

"No, no, they left a little while ago, bit disappointed not to see you before they left." Pamela was distracted, obviously doing the dishes with Una and Mavis Enderby, because he could hear them chattering in the background.

As he'd hoped, Bridget's mother launched into five minutes of meandering conversation, and Mark was able to piece together that the majority of attendants at the Turkey Curry Buffet had left, and the rest were either in the sitting room face-deep in Raspberry Surprise, or in the kitchen cleaning the dishes. He closed his phone, disconnecting the call.

"Are you ready?" Mark asked, suddenly feeling like he was commanding an undercover tactical operation.

"Yes."

Mark inched the door open, stuck his head out. The coast was clear. "It's now or never."

Feeling utterly ridiculous, he emerged from the cupboard, standing as quickly as he could. He motioned for Bridget to hurry out, smoothing his hair down, glancing to his slacks, hoping they didn't look too disreputable. She began to crawl out when Mark heard, to his mortification, "Bridget?"

Mr. Jones stood there at the door to the dining room, a bowl of dessert in his hand. The spoon remained just below his mouth, as if he struggled to comprehend what he was seeing: his daughter half-emerged from the cupboard door, her boyfriend standing above her, clearly aiding her. The big question was: how much had he really seen?

"Hi, Dad," she said uncertainly, looking up to her father from her position on all fours.

Mark glanced back to her, bent and helped her stand.

"What were you doing in the cupboard?"

"Mark wanted… to see Mr Jingles… and I could have sworn he was in there."

"My darling girl, Mr Jingles went to teddy bear heaven when you were six."

"Oh, right," said Bridget. "Well, that would certainly explain why I couldn't find him." It was an exquisite bit of improv; he was quite impressed. She brushed herself off and beamed beatifically at her father.

"Ah." He still looked dubious as the spoonful of raspberry finally made it in his mouth, but he shrugged and smiled. Indicating his bowl, he asked, "Have you had dessert?"

Mark looked to Bridget. She was gazing fixedly at Mark, saw the spark of deviltry in her eyes as she replied evenly, "Yes."

Mark felt the corner of his mouth turn up of its own accord. "I wouldn't mind seconds."

"Hmm," Bridget agreed.

Her father looked between his daughter and her boyfriend. After a moment he said, "Well. Back to the telly with me then."

Mark felt that disaster had been averted and they were in the clear. His relief was short-lived, however, when he saw Mr Jones fight to hide a knowing grin before he turned and wandered back towards the sitting room.

_The end._


End file.
